THE WEDDING VEIL

Taranaki Daily News, 24 May 1934, Page 15

THE WEDDING VEIL

(By

Flora Masson)

(Author of “The Brontes,” “Memories of Two Cities,” etc.)

CHAPTER 12 (Continued). Christina had seen the hot colour mounting to the girl’s forehead, and then the young face growing palepale, and drawn, and tired; but still the girl had kept silence, and the old woman had continued in her slow and simple voice:— “I was never knowing where my Mary was—where he had taken her—, all that long, long year. I was always waiting; and then, after he had .left her, and the child born, and she dying, and all alone —she sent for me, and I went. Here, in a hospital, I saw her die, and Isa and [ together—we buried her. And we took the young child —you, my lamb — and it is you have been the light of our eyes since that day!” Christina Macdonald had come to the end of her story. There was nothing more to say. “And because he left my mother, you have given me your name?” “It is our name, and her name, and your name; the name of Macdonald! “But, auntie,—what was my father’s name?” ' There was a long pause. “He came—a stranger—to the Glen; and when ,he lived with her, here, in town —it was a false name he took.” “A false name?” The little face looked up:—such an unhappy, dry-eyed, little face! “Thank you for telling me; auntie. I have often, often wondered. Now I know.” CHAPTER 13. The long windows of the library were open on to the gardens: the gardens of. The Old House lay bathed in the warm light of an autumn sunset. Sir John, leaning back in his easy chair by the wood fire, was looking at George Ellis, who was sitting opposite to him in the other easy chair. George Ellis had only once been able to run down to The Old House since he had said good-bye to them at Victoria Station. That was about a week after their return. Since then, they had not seen nor heard anything about him, and his appearance this afternoon had been quite unexpected. Julia had gone into town, to her dressmaker’s. She would be sorry to miss George. The old butler had brought in the afternoon tea-table and set it in front of George; and George had poured out the tea, given his uncle his in his own specially large cup, and then had himself eaten all the bread and butter. “Well, George, my boy, how are you getting oh? How’s business?”

“Pretty fair, Sir,” said George. He was looking tired. “Heard from your mother lately, George?” “Yes—l had a letter yesterday. She’s very well.” “Where is she now, George?” “Living with her husband, I hope, Sir.”

“George! You are always so flippant! I dislike flippancy.” “I beg. your pardon, Sir. Mother is very happy—very happy indeed. . She likes living in Chicago,—and he’s quite a good chap—for a millionaire.”

“I never could understand it,” Sir John said testily, “her marrying again so soon after your father’s death. Not that I blame her— but I think she should have waited, George. Two years is little enough. I felt it, —I felt it at the time. Not that your father and I always hit it off; we didn’t, George. He had very queer notions about some things. Not like a Parson.”

George remained silent. He poured himself out another cup of tea, and sat playing with his tea-spoon.

“I remember once,—we were sitting here just as you and I are sitting now; your father was sitting in that very chair you are -in now, George. He said a very peculiar thing to me, I haven’t forgotten it. He said young people liked to feed out of your hand, and all the time they were trying to get the better of you. That was an odd thing to say—a very odd thing. It wasn’t like a Parson—and I told him so.”

George’s foce had softened —and then it hardened. He made no comment. He intensely disliked these periodically recurring reminiscences of his uncle’s. “And there was another odd thing he did, George—but that was a long time ago, when we were both boys. I was thinking of it, only the other day. He wanted the motto on the sundial altered. But it wouldn’t have done, George,—it wouldn’t have done. Its always a mistake to alter things. Much better leave them as they are, — and I told him so.” George stood up. “If I may, uncle, I think I’ll go into the garden and smoke a pipe. I know you don’t like the pipe in here, Sir.” “All right, George my boy; by all means. I don’t care for pipe smoke, as you know. I don’t object to a cigarette, —but pipes—your father smoked a pipe. He had an old pipe he was very fond of. I remember ....'’ But George had already made for the open window. Sir John looked after him for a moment, and then took up a seed and bulb list, from the little table at his elbow.

“Queer fellow, George,” he muttered to himself as he began to study the list. “Very like his father in some things.” George Ellis, standing outside the window, filled and lit his pipe. He walked slowly across the lawn, away from the house, and along the stoneflagged path that led to the sundial. The stones were still warm in the setting sun. The herbaceous borders were still brilliant with scarlets and purples and yellows. The gardens of The Old House were always orderly and beautiful, whether it were spring, or summer, or autumn,. Even in winter, they were pleasant to the sight. “Well understood”—George recalled the phrase: it was the phrase of an old garden-lover of the seventeenth century,— the old Earl of Norwich. A garden “well understood.” Easier to say about a garden than about a human being! How little understood his father had been. Nobody had understood him, —and no wonder! Cruelly overworked; gloriously happy to the last, in his poor London parish; cut off after three days’ illness—pneumonia.

George looked across the gardens in the direction of the little market town. His father lay there, in the family vault in old Chippenstone Churchyard—buried there only a couple of years after poor Jack. “The whole human chapter blotted out,” muttered George to his pipe. “Another Parson in the Parish —another husband in the —”

He stooped to lift the head of a late rose that hung on the red brick wall. That was another of the old courtier Earl's saying: “A rose in autumn is as sweet as a rose in June.” George didn t think so. Just at the moment—in fact the last week or two—he had been thinking rather intermittently of the sweetness of a rose in June. George had always considered himself to be one of the prudent, sensible Ellises, as distinguished from that other strain in his family, the Ellises who did foolishly romantic things. He had no desire to be classed with the Ellises who had quarrelled with the Thirty-nine Articles and taken to horse-racing, or the Ellises who had abandoned the Law and gone on the stage. He knew he

was to be the next Squire—the next Baronet—and he knew quite well that, unless he was to be classed among the foolishly romantic Ellises, he must take care with whom he allowed himself to fall in love.

George tapped his pipe against the back of a garden seat, and put it into his pocket; and he laughed—rather a hard laugh. A girl of seventeen—just out of school —a girl with a wistful, tender little face, and sweet —yes, quite a sweet little manner of her own. The school must be resonsible for that, with her obviously simple. birth and upbringing. Well, — Julia came down the path, and called to him.

“Oh, George! I am so glad I haven’t missed you!” He turned, and came towards her. She put her hand in his arm. “Let us walk up and down for a-Uttle while,” she said, “and have our chat out here. You’ll stay and dine with us, George?” George said he was sorry he must return to tovzn. He had, in fact, promised to dine with Tommy and his wife, just back from their honeymoon. He was not particularly looking forward to this first dinner with his friend under the altered conditions. Tommy’s domestic happiness was a little too evident at present. ■

He walked once or twice up and down' the stone-flagged path with his cousin Ju. He must catch the next’ train into town—and there was now unlimited time to walk to the station. Julia had a good deal to say to him about Sir John and her plans for the winter.

“I must stay here now, George. It wouldn’t do to leave Papa alone.” “No, I suppose not, Ju. It will be rather dull for you, won’t it?” “It can’t be helped, George. I’ve got my little companion coming back. I’ve quite missed her, since we returned. I say, George—”

She stopped on the path, and looked at him expressively.

“If you come here—while she is here with me—you’ll take care not to turn her little head?” “Do you think it likely, Ju?” “Well, you know, —you can be very fascinating. George, when you try. And you mustn’t try. I can’t have her little head turned, George, with all that talk about romances and the “New Weekly.” You must remember she’s only—it would be unfair —” “How does one try not to be fascinating, Ju?” “George! You know what I mean, quite well!” “You aren’t afraid of my head?” “Don’t be ridiculous!” “Well—you give me a list of the things I may talk about when I come next time. As a matter of fact, I don’t think—” A clock at the stables struck the hour. George looked at his watch. “By Jove! I must hurry to catch that train. Good-bye, Ju. Say good-bye to uncle for me. Perhaps, in the circumstances, I’d better not say “Auf Wiedersehen”!” CHAPTER 14. It was not easy to find the grave; there were so many graves, and they were all so much alike. Dorothy had come into the cemetery by the big iron gates in the main road. Her aunt Christina had told her how and where they had buried her mother. Her aunt had described to her the long, long drive from the back-gates of the hospital, ■where the coffin had been put upon the hearse, to the big iron gates of the cemetery where Mary Macdonald had been laid to her rest. Her aunt had told her what a sad and dreary drive it was, she and Isa sitting side by side in the mourning coach that followed the hearse, through what had seemed to be miles and miles of strange people and houses, —people going this way and that way, nobody so much as turning a head to look at a hearse and the mourning coach that followed it. Her aunt had told her how strangely the words of the burial service had fallen on her ears, “And me thinking only of the fine soft earth and the bogmyrtle and heather in Glenmuie;“ and how difficult it had been to arrange for a funeral at all, so soon after coming to London, and not knowing the ways of a great City; and how kind Isa Macdonald had been, she who knew her way about very well; and how a friend of Isa’s, that had been in the service of her Ladyship and had married and was living in the City, had come all the way to Hampstead to take care of the shop and the young child; and how tired Christina and Isa had been when they came back from the funeral; “but the child had taken no harm, and Isa’s friend had four children of her own.” This sad little narration had filled Dorothy’s thoughts while the omnibus was taking her along the same old dreary, unnoticing road. Seventeen years ago! but her aunt had described it all as vividly as if it had happened only yesterday. Her aunt had not known that Dorothy was going to the cemetery to-day; the description had been given more as a memory of her own visits which had, of late, not been so frequent as during the first sad days after Mary’s death and burial. Dorothy knew that after she went in by the big iron gates she must keep to the right, and walk along the path with grass on either side of it till she came to another gate—a gate with iron bars—that looked as if it were never opened. It was padlocked; and the padlock and chain were red with rust—it could be noticed at once; and just outside the gate—it could be seen through the bars—there was a heap of old flower-pots and some dead green things. Dorothy, alone in the cemetery, knew that after she had passed the gate with the rusty padlock she had only a few steps to walk, and she would come to her mother’s grave among the graves on the right hand. But still it was not easy to find; there were so many graves, and they were all so much alike. And then, suddenly, the girl found herself standing in front of it:—a little green mound, like all the others, but with a black wooden head-board, fixed by two iron prongs into the earth. On the board, in gilt lettering, much tarnished, was the name “Mary Macdonald.” That was all. Dorothy stood for a minute, quite still. She would have liked to have knelt. She had been taught to kneel in worship and in prayer. But the other graves—the other little green mounds—were so near together that she could not very well kneel; she could just manage to find her footing among them. So she stood, at the foot of her mother’s grave, and looked long at the little green mound, and the head-board, and the name. And then, with lips that trembled, she spoke softly. “Mother,” she said, “Mother,—l have come to tell you,” she was speaking to the little green mound as if it were a sentient being—“that I love you more than anything in the world. I didn’t know, or I would have come before, Mother, if you have felt lonely all this time you needn’t feel lonely any more. I wish you were here. Mother—” (To be Continued),.